The Second Winter, page 28
Behind Oskar, the shadow inside the barn formed a black background without any depth. The longer Polina stared at him, the less connected he became to the objects surrounding him. She had the impression that he was floating.
Then Polina caught sight of her own reflection on the surface of the window. It had been a long while since she had paid any attention to herself. She had seen her reflection in mirrors, but only in passing. Now she noticed how broad her forehead was becoming. Her nose had grown longer. She didn’t recognize the expression in her eyes. Her lips were fuller than she remembered, and she could see how red they were, even in this nearly translucent likeness. No, she hardly recognized herself at all. She felt her cheeks flush, though she wasn’t certain why. Blinking, she let go of the image on the glass, focused once again on the barn.
Oskar, though, had disappeared from the crack between the doors, and there was nothing there for Polina to see any longer except the blank canvas of the barn’s dark shadow.
In Isabella’s room, Fredrik was slumped on the floor next to the bed. He had emptied the syringe into his arm. His back was pressed against the sharp edge of the metal bed frame. His breath was so shallow that his chest wasn’t moving. His arms were resting on his thighs, his hands were open, palms up. His legs were splayed, his feet were bare. The light was seeping slowly from the room. Maybe the air was seeping from the room as well. The walls were moving closer. The gap between the curtain and the wall was shrinking into a dot. When voices were raised downstairs in the whorehouse, Fredrik didn’t move, not a single muscle. His cheek twitched, but this happened so briefly that it might not have happened at all.
There were footsteps on the stairs, punctuated by the squeak of polished leather. The swish of heavy wool echoed down the length of the corridor. In a room across the hall, a woman was moaning and a bed was creaking. The footsteps approached, then stopped on the other side of Isabella’s door. Knuckles rapped the door, and the door rattled in its frame. Isabella? The customer spoke the name softly, but with the unmistakable accent of a German. He knocked again, waited. The doorknob moved. The latch clinked. Still, Fredrik didn’t wake. The door fell still again. Isabella’s disappointed customer found another whore. Music floated through the building like down that has escaped from a pillow.
When Fredrik opened his eyes, it was dark. On the bed behind him, a black-haired woman with olive skin was lying on top of the covers. She wasn’t moving. One arm hung limply at her side, the other was draped behind her head. Her breasts had been heavy, and they lay flat on her chest and rolled off her ribs, half hidden by the thin fabric of her shirt. Her mouth hung open, and her chin was scabbed with dried mucus. A small stain of blood darkened the arm by her side, just beneath the fold of her elbow. Fredrik pulled himself to his feet. He didn’t look at the bed, not once. He had known that Isabella was dead from the instant he returned from his shower. There had been no reason to feel for a pulse.
He gathered his clothes, pulled on his boots, then let himself out the door. Outside, the snow didn’t melt when it touched his face. Behind him, the music crackling on the radio’s tinny speaker faded. He didn’t know which direction to walk.
POLINA CAPTURED
27.
Jutland. December 31, 1941.
Johan Jungmann stood in front of his bathroom mirror, a razor in one hand. His other hand was resting on the rim of the washbasin. Without his glasses, he looked like a different man, even to himself. The brass frames, the slivers of crystalline glass, had become part of his face. His vision wasn’t so poor that he couldn’t bring his image into focus. A drop of blood was rolling down his cheek an inch beneath his eye. He had nicked himself with the razor. He watched the red liquid thin as it mixed with the water on his skin, then vanish into a foamy mass of shaving cream at the base of his jaw. Another drop welled from the cut, then followed the first, and a diluted, pink sheen spread across his cheek. He looked into his reflection, struggled to define just what it was that was so different about him without his glasses. Perhaps it was how naked he seemed. Without the corrective lenses to shield them, his eyes became organs.
He splashed his face with hot water, then tore a ragged square of tissue from the toilet roll and stuck it to the cut. Then he picked up his glasses from the edge of the sink and placed them back onto his nose, wrapped the thin metal temples behind his ears. The water drained from the basin with a hollow gurgle.
In the hallway, he paused at the door to his daughter’s room. It wasn’t yet seven. Mia, his wife of eight years, was still in bed, and he hadn’t expected any sound from Kirsten’s room either. The quiet patter of his daughter’s voice filled him with emotion. Resting a hand on the knob, he tried to make sense of what she was saying, but he couldn’t decipher a word.
When he opened the door, Kirsten was sitting on the floor in front of her bed. Dressed in her flannel nightgown, the little girl was holding something in her hands, playing a child’s game. Behind her, the curtains were pulled back from the window. Although it was early, enough light was streaming inside to throw the four-year-old’s face into shadow. She looked up at her father. Only the tip of her nose glistened in the light. Her hair shimmered as if it were spun from gold. They had given her a new dollhouse for Christmas. It had been an extravagant present. Jungmann had intended it as much for Mia as for Kirsten, indirectly, at least. He knew that his wife would be reassured by the display of confidence the gift represented, despite how difficult their circumstances were becoming. If the Germans dissolved the Danish government, there was no telling what would happen — not just to his income but to him. Kirsten, though, had mostly ignored the toy. She had lost interest when her father tried to show her how to move the dolls about inside without upsetting any of the furniture. By the end of the evening, she had dug her old cloth doll out from the closet where Mia had hidden it, and this was what she was cradling now.
When Kirsten raised a hand to point at his face, her arm burst into the light. The shadow surrounding her assumed the weight of water. “What’s that?” she asked her father.
“These?” Jungmann let go of the doorknob, touched the frames of his glasses with his fingertips. “These are my glasses, Kirsten, you know that.”
The little girl shook her head. “No — that.” She continued pointing at her father’s face.
For an instant, Jungmann felt shaken, as if his daughter was able to see something terrible about him. Then he remembered the nick on his cheek from the razor. He tapped the piece of toilet paper, made certain that it was still stuck to the cut. “It’s nothing, darling.”
Kirsten continued to point at him. Then she dropped her hand, found her doll again. A few seconds later, she had forgotten that her father was standing in the doorway, and she resumed her game. Rikke doesn’t like the sound, Rikke wants to run away, Rikke is afraid. Oh, it’s okay, Rikke. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Those are only airplanes. Jungmann watched his daughter, then took a step backward into the hall and closed the door again.
Downstairs, he didn’t pause in the kitchen for anything to eat. He would stop for a coffee on his way. This murder of Lars Brink had thrown the administration into chaos, and he wanted to get to his office. The Germans, of course, were most upset by the escape of Vilfred Thiesen. Yes, it was the Christmas season. But how could the local police have left their prisoner in jail with only one guard on duty, the night before he was to be transferred into their custody? The Danish townspeople were running scared, but now they were fighting back. Like the rest of the city council, Jungmann had found himself trapped between the Nazis and his own countrymen. He pulled on his coat, slipped his hands into his gloves, let himself out the front door.
On the stoop, the crisp white corner of an envelope protruded from beneath the edge of the bristle doormat, and he bent to pick it up. He had to remove a hand from a glove in order to open it. He tore the seal, lifted out the letter. His fingers were red by the time he had unfolded it.
You will find a Polish Jew in hiding in Fredrik Gregersen’s house.
Jungmann’s expression didn’t alter as he read the note. He folded the letter again, inserted it back into the envelope, surveyed the street. A light snow was falling. Smoke was rising from a few chimneys. The village was quiet. Remembering the deadbolt, he slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket, then found his keys and locked the door before starting down the sidewalk.
From his vantage point in a doorway halfway up the block, Franz Jakobsen watched the magistrate disappear. Gustav Keller would be happy with this twist. Franz’s instructions had been to track down the stolen jewels and punish the bastards who had lifted them from the Jews. A business such as theirs, providing illicit passage through Denmark to Jews and other refugees fleeing Germany, couldn’t survive such treachery — it depended upon their clients’ faith that their person and property would be kept safe, when they had no outside redress through the law. A message had to be sent. So Franz had executed Axel Madsen. He had assassinated Hermann Schmidt. He had recovered the stolen jewels. Now he was taking care of Fredrik. Gustav would appreciate the cleverness of turning his own Danish compatriots against the farmhand. Let the police do their dirty work, especially as Fredrik appeared to be a dangerous man to subdue. Before the war, Gustav had been the general manager of the bank where Franz had been a clerk. Just before the invasion, Franz had been caught ambushing another one of the bank clerks — the husband of a woman with whom Franz was having an affair. Gustav had fired him, of course. Franz had beaten the man senseless. What job do you think you hold? Gustav had asked him. This is a bank, sir. A bank. A couple of weeks after the Germans stormed into Denmark, though, Gustav had knocked on Franz’s door. I have a job for you, he had said, that I think you might like. Franz waited until Jungmann’s footsteps receded. Then he pulled a small blue pack from his pocket, lifted it to his mouth, clamped his lips over the butt of a cigarette. In the past few weeks, he had developed a taste for American tobacco. He struck a match with his thumbnail, drew a deep breath of smoke into his lungs, then headed up the street in the opposite direction.
At ten o’clock, Fredrik hadn’t yet returned home. At the side of the barn, Oskar was sawing a plank. A few boards had begun to rot on the barn door, and they needed to be replaced. Fredrik had started the project a few days before, but he hadn’t gotten far.
At the top of the driveway, Amalia was letting herself out the gate, on her way to a neighboring farm to trade some sugar for flour and yeast. She noticed that the latch was still broken. Mr. Nielsen had himself asked her to remind her father that it was waiting to be fixed. She had told Fredrik twice already, but he had ignored her. Mr. Nielsen would be upset. After all, if the gate didn’t stay closed, the animals could escape. She pulled it shut behind her, propped it against the post to make sure that it stayed in place, then tucked the five-pound bag of sugar under her arm, buttoned it inside her coat. It was a two-mile trek to the Hartmann farm. The wind was gusting, but at least the snow and rain had let up for the moment. After the exchange, she would carry ten pounds of flour back to the Nielsens’. Perhaps the Hartmanns would offer her a cup of tea first. Across the road, birch trees planted to screen the crops were swaying in the wind. She peered between the trunks into the hidden recesses of the copse, then set off down the side of the highway in the direction of Aalborg.
A few minutes later, the growl of a truck’s engine broke the silence. Amalia shielded her eyes. At first, she saw nothing. Sound could travel farther than light on a day like today. And then the faint outline of a black Citroën sedan appeared, trailed seconds later by the larger, looming shadow of the truck whose engine she could hear, rumbling over the frozen asphalt. She recognized Jungmann’s car, even from a distance. Hanging from the rear of the truck, a German soldier with scarlet lips, his long coat flapping in the turbulence, grabbed his crotch and leered at her as the vehicles passed. The truck’s engine geared down as they reached the Nielsens’ driveway, then quieted into an idle. Worry creased Amalia’s face, but she bent her head and continued walking.
Oskar had long since given up hope that Fredrik would return today to help him with the chores. His back was aching. He had stopped sawing to watch Amalia trudge up the driveway to the gate. When she turned around halfway up the path, he had waved at her, and she had waved back at him without a smile. Then he had continued his father’s work. Chunks of wood dropped from the saw’s teeth. Fine particles of sawdust stung his eyes. When the grind of the truck’s engine rode to his ears on the back of the wind, he twisted to look up toward the gate again. Still bent over the half-sawn plank, he watched as Jungmann’s car circled down the drive toward the cottage, followed closely by the German truck.
Inside the house, Polina turned off the tap at the kitchen sink. The window was frosted with a layer of steam. She wiped it clear with her fist — her skin left a smear on the pane — then peered outside in time to see the convoy emerge from the mist at the top of the property. She dried her hands, stepped back from the glass, switched off the lamp. She was half naked in a sheer undershirt and a silk slip that Hermann Schmidt had given her — for these were her only underclothes. For a moment, fear paralyzed her. Then she hurried to the stairs. In the room she shared with Fredrik’s children, she slunk to the window and pulled back the corner of the curtain as the car and truck trundled to a stop beneath her, in front of the cottage.
Beside the barn, Oskar stiffened. Across the field, through the thick, swirling mist, he had seen the curtain move upstairs. When Jungmann stepped from the Citroën, the magistrate spotted the boy next to the woodpile. Even from this distance, he could smell his fear. “Where’s your father?” he called out to him.
Oskar watched the soldiers jump from the rear of the truck. He counted five, all of them armed.
“Where’s Fredrik?” Jungmann repeated, when Oskar didn’t answer quickly enough.
Oskar shook his head. “He hasn’t returned home. Not since yesterday.”
The magistrate pivoted on his heel, studied the cottage. “Is anyone inside?” Without waiting for an answer, he started around the side of the house toward the cellar. Finding it locked, he turned back toward Oskar. “Get me the key.”
Oskar’s mind was spinning as he headed for the cottage. Perhaps he could reach Polina before Jungmann did — but even so, how could he protect her? His feet slid on the ice, and he nearly tripped with every step. The soldiers were watching him. He bit his tongue and tasted blood.
“I want this door opened,” Jungmann said.
But Oskar didn’t hear him. His attention had been drawn to some movement on the other side of the house. Fredrik was letting himself inside through the back door. Halfway across the yard, Oskar’s feet rooted to the earth. As relieved as he was to see his father, a premonition of what might follow left him suddenly cold. An icy wind nipped his ears.
“Get me the key,” Jungmann repeated, raising his voice. “Do you hear?” When Oskar didn’t move, he let the lock go and circled back toward the porch himself.
Inside the house, Fredrik didn’t waste any time. He twisted the bolt to lock the front door, then took the stairs two at a time. He tried to move quietly, but his boots pounded the treads. When he burst into the children’s bedroom, Polina was standing in a corner, clutching a cut-glass pitcher as if it was a weapon. Her face was contorted with panic, but this dissipated the instant she saw him. Her lips parted, her brow relaxed. The pitcher slipped from her fingers and landed at her feet with a thud. “Come with me,” Fredrik said.
His eyes swept over her body as she passed in front of the window. The weak light pierced the pearly material of her slip, her undershirt dissolved into gauze. The diamond ring sparkled between her breasts. “Who are they?” she asked him.
Fredrik didn’t respond. “There’s an attic,” he said. “Hurry.”
Polina followed him into the hallway at the top of the stairs, where he pointed to a trapdoor in the low ceiling. He was tall enough to reach up and, without standing on his toes, to slide it clear of the opening. The hole the panel revealed was pitch-black. The whistle of the wind intensified, the musty smell of mold wafted into the house. Outside, there were footsteps in the snow. You told me that there was no one in the house. Jungmann’s voice penetrated the walls.
Oskar forced himself forward again. “Maybe my father came home,” he said, striding toward the cottage. “I’ve been working by the barn —”
Jungmann, though, had already reached the porch. “You stay outside,” he commanded, cutting the boy off.
“The key to the cellar,” Oskar reminded him.
“Stay where you are.” The magistrate grabbed the railing, started up the stairs.
In the hallway on the second floor, Fredrik let go of the trapdoor, turned toward Polina. “You’re going to have to climb up, hide yourself there.”
Polina repeated her question. “Who are they?”
“There’s no time. Come.” Grabbing her by the waist, Fredrik was surprised at how insubstantial she was. His rough fingers caught on the fabric of her undershirt, tugging a few threads loose. He slipped his hands underneath, and they very nearly ringed her torso. He hoisted her as if she were made of balsa, lifted her into the dark. Below her, his gaze was fixed between her legs, in the shadows beneath her slip.
“Wait.” She searched for a ledge where she could set her hands, then pulled herself into the attic. The rustle of rats scurrying to the walls sent a chill down her spine. She squirmed into the cramped hiding place beneath the thatch, drew her legs up behind her.
“Okay?”
Downstairs, the door rattled in its frame. The light shifted when Jungmann pressed his face against the glass.
